


The New Apartment

by stacydm



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3434855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stacydm/pseuds/stacydm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Felicity moves into her amazing new place, she expects her life will change, at least a little. She's a homeowner now, after all. But Felicity's new apartment apparently comes with some baggage, in the form of an insanely handsome billionaire and his adorable kid sister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Apartment

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I know I have two other stories on the go, neither of which I've updated in an eternity, and for that I'm sorry! My only excuse is that I'm blocked on both (and that there's so much good fanfiction happening that I've been reading instead of writing).
> 
> So, until inspiration hits and I feel enthusiastic about continuing with those fanfics, I've decided to test the water on this new story. 
> 
> As with everyone, I don't have any ownership over DC's universe, the CW, or the Arrow and the Flash. Which is seriously unfortunate, because this season is slowly killing me.
> 
> I hope you like this taste of "The New Apartment". Cheers! 
> 
> PS. I don't use a beta, so mistakes are on me.

Felicity smiled as she walked towards her brand new, floral-patterned arm chair. The chair, which Felicity had been eyeing for months, was her favourite out the items she purchased to celebrate her new title as homeowner. There was also a cozy king-sized bed, complete with new linens; three prints of rainbow hued feathers; a grown-up dining table; a tall, cylindrical floor lamp; three kitchen bar stools, in three different colours; and a blooming, green cymbidium orchid—all of which were now arranged in amongst her other furniture and housewares. 

Even though her move had taken the whole day, Felicity was now fully unpacked, and her new flat finally felt like a home.

With a quick adjustment to her framed Robin Hood movie poster, she settled into her new chair, cozying up with a substantial glass of red wine and the latest (digital) issue of _Wired_.   

She would miss the townhouse that she’d rented since moving to Starling, with its small patch of greenish-brown lawn and big, bay window, but her landlord was selling for more than Felicity could afford, and so she had to look elsewhere for accommodations.

Purchasing a home hadn’t been her plan. Caitlin, her best friend, had taken the liberty of crunching the numbers that Felicity preferred to avoid. Then, she had dragged her to a bank and a real estate agent, and before she knew it, they were walking into the flat.

She fell in love with it instantly. The exposed brick wall and the high ceilings captured her heart seconds after walking through the front door, and she quickly became attached to the living room’s small view of the building’s garden, the flat’s traditionally paneled walls, and the restored, original hardwood floors. Once she timed the walk to Queen Consolidated at 4 minutes and 36 seconds, she was sold.

There were, however, a few things in the flat that she wanted to fix. The kitchen, though recently updated with new appliances and white cabinets, was closed off from the rest of the house, only accessible through a weird door in the dining room, and the ensuite was antiquated (and that was Felicity being kind). When she mentioned these flaws to her real estate, the woman handed over a card with the number of a contractor, and told Felicity the price of the flat.

Apparently, the previous owner was eager to sell and had already moved, so Felicity would get a great price and immediate possession, leaving her the money and the time to remodel.  

Three hours later, she closed on the flat. Three days later, the contractor arrived. And three weeks later, the kitchen was opened up to the dining room, the bathroom had new fixtures and tile, and the eggshell and burgundy walls were shades of mocha crème and midnight navy.

And now, Felicity was living in one of the most beautiful flats she’d ever been in. 

Everything was truly coming up Felicity.

 _Took life long enough_ , Felicity scoffed, indulging in a slightly larger gulp of wine than was considered lady-like.

After finishing her magazine and spending an hour (or so) perusing her favourite online stores for new shoes, Felicity’s wine glass was empty and her body was tired. Just as she stood to turn off her lights and crawl into her fluffy new bed, there were two, rather loud, raps on her door.

She glanced at the clock on her wall. Two a.m.

As embarrassing as it might be for a young, single, twenty-four year old to admit, Felicity knew she had no one who would come to see her at two in the morning.

There were two more, even louder knocks, followed by a moan. Or a growl. Felicity wasn’t exactly sure. What she was sure of was that whoever was on the other side of her door was a man—she simply couldn’t fathom a woman uttering the sounds he had.

“Who is it?” she called out timidly, edging closer to her door and cursing herself for not listening to Caitlin about getting a dog.

Then again, the banging would probably result in barking, and then she’d have two noises to deal with.

Felicity paused, gathering her wits. She knew that the neighborhood she moved into was safe—almost 48% safer than her townhouse’s community, if the city’s crime statistics were accurate. The crime rate was one of the main reason she hadn’t considered a dog in the first place. That, and the fact that when she was six, her friend Sam’s dog had bitten her; and when she was nine, her mom’s boyfriend’s dog had given their house fleas; and when she was nineteen, her roommate’s brother’s dog had chewed a pair of Jimmy Choos she won at a poker game.

Felicity had no plans of sacrificing anymore beautiful shoes. Not even for the sake of her safety.  

When the thumping started back up, followed by more moaning, Felicity knew she had to take action.

“Lemme in,” a deep voice voice slurred.

Now Felicity, as scared as she was, couldn’t have her neighbours thinking she was responsible for any disruption to their sleep. A noise complaint less than 24-hours after moving in wouldn’t exactly help make her popular with the building’s board.  

She pulled out her phone, fingers at the ready to call the police, and opened the door.

Forced to jump out of the way to avoid the large, blond man who tumbled inside her flat, she watched in horror as he passed out, landing on the floor of her front entry.

“Great,” Felicity muttered.

She nudged the man with her foot once, twice. No response.

“Double great. Let’s see who you…,” she moved around to get a better look at her uninvited guest. “Shit. Oh shit shit shit.”

Oliver Queen.

Oliver Queen was unconscious.

And in her house.

*

It took Felicity almost twenty minutes to devise the best method of dealing with Starling’s resident billionaire playboy—ex-playboy?

Felicity wasn’t sure exactly what Oliver Queen’s title was in the tabloids nowadays. He’d been involved with some lady lawyer for the last couple years, according to Caitlin’s boyfriend’s pseudo-sister. Felicity, of course, knew that the man used to be the champion of the country’s filthy-rich bad-boys, hearing more than her fair share of Oliver Queen gossip through her mother, her coworkers at the casinos, and the kids at her school. The stories only intensified when the man himself travelled to Vegas for his 21st birthday party.

But those stories were from a lifetime ago. The man was nearly thirty now, and had been in the news far more for his philanthropic work and QC earnings than any drunken escapades.

She patted him down (trying hard not to acknowledge how muscular he felt beneath his suit pants and his jacket) in search of a phone. Felicity also rolled him onto his side—thinking back to those early MIT dorm days when the RAs warned about the dangers of vomiting roommates.

The last thing Felicity needed, or wanted, was a dead Oliver Queen in her new flat.

Not because it was her new flat. A dead Oliver Queen in general would be bad. Just, a dead Oliver Queen in her house would be so much worse.

She found his phone in his left pant pocket and saw two texts come in from someone named Speedy:

_im at the club  
bouncer said you left already so that kinda defeats me pickin u up_

_Where did u go_   
_?  
_ _prolly Laurel?_

Felicity quickly broke into Oliver Queen’s phone to text back Speedy—she was astonished that she didn’t even have to hack in. What kind of thirty-year old billionaire used 6969 as his password? Didn’t he have security consultants or common sense to tell him when he was being an idiot?

Faced with the keyboard and the reality that she was about to respond to a complete stranger through Oliver Queen’s phone, Felicity froze before defaulting to professionalism.

_Hello. My name is Felicity. Mr. Queen has passed out in my home. Could you please come and get him, or inform me on who to contact about coming to get him? Thank you._

She waited about two minutes before Oliver Queen’s phone rang.

“Hello? Mr. Queen’s phone,” Felicity answered.  
“Seriously?” a female voice responded.  
“Um…yes?”  
“This is Felicity?”  
“Yes. This is Speedy?”

The woman on the other end groaned, muttering something about irritating nicknames and stupid older brothers.

“My name is Thea, not Speedy,” she complained. “I’m Ollie’s—“  
“Sister, yes, of course,” Felicity interrupted.

Everyone in Starling new the Queen family tree.

“So, Miss. Queen, would you mind coming to get your brother?”  
“You know Felicity, this is a first. I’ve never had one of Ollie’s one nighters call me about taking him away. Must be losing his charm,” Thea snorted, and Felicity was overwhelmed with disbelief.

First, Thea Queen just snorted. She was quite certain that the regal Mrs. Queen, who she’d seen around the office a few times, and the distinguished Robert Queen, who she met with once every other month on cyber security matters, would not appreciate a snorting daughter.

Second, Oliver Queen having a one-night stand with Felicity Smoak, IT nerd extraordinaire? As if.

Struggling to find her voice and correct the young Queen, Felicity stuttered out a no. Or, well, maybe multiple no’s. Possibly even a few no-no-no-no’s.

“So, in conclusion, no,” she stopped her murmurs, only to start a babble. “I don’t know Mr. Queen at all. Especially in any carnal way. That is just…no. Your brother started banging on my door about thirty minutes ago and then passed out onto the floor when I opened it the door. He’s still unconscious. Comatose? Sleeping? I guess passed out is probably the most accurate term. I saw on his phone that you were going to go get him at some club. Could you maybe take a detour and pick him up here instead?”

She didn’t expect Thea’s explosion of laughter.

And quite frankly, it pissed her off. Felicity was tired. She wanted to go bed a half hour ago, and instead she was dealing with one drunk, lifeless billionaire, and one billionaire who couldn’t seem to stop laughing at her.  

“Miss. Queen,” Felicity started, her voice edging on what Caitlin dubbed ‘the loud voice’, “this is a serious matter. If you won’t come and get your brother, I’ll be forced to phone the people who will. And they happen to wear uniforms and drive in vehicles with flashing lights.”

The laughter ebbed.

“Are you threatening me Felicity?” Thea Queen growled, and Felicity rolled her eyes.  
“No Miss. Queen,” she sighed. “I’m simply explaining to you that an unwelcome stranger is currently passed out in my front entry and I’d really like to not have that be the case so I can go to sleep.”

There was a short silence before Thea Queen responded, much more kindly and seriously than throughout the rest of their conversation.

“I can come and get him. Where do you live Felicity?”  
“520 Green Street. Brick building. Apartment 305.”  
“You’re kidding, right?”

Thea Queen’s jovial tone was back, and Felicity didn’t understand the change at all.

“No. Is my address a joke or something?”  
“It’s just…nevermind. I’m already started back to the manor, and if Ollie’s passed out I’ll have to grab a friend first, so I’ll be an hour, maybe a little less?”  
“Okay. Thank you Miss. Queen.”  
“Sure.”

They disconnected and Felicity put Oliver Queen’s phone on her front entry’s table, next to her car keys and change dish. She looked down at the unconscious billionaire again, and felt a wave of sorrow for him, wondering what would drive someone who was off-the-wagon to drink himself into blissful oblivion once again.

**Author's Note:**

> So...did you like the taste?


End file.
